


The Jar

by losthitsu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:09:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1896807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthitsu/pseuds/losthitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England and the Mystery of an Empty Jar</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jar

**Author's Note:**

> Very old fic, slightly reworked, posted because I'm still stupidly fond of it.

There it was, standing in the middle of the kitchen table.

A jar.

England stared at it with a mixture of curiosity, suspicion and fondness - the small piece of glass and metal somehow managed to be the centrepiece of this short visit to America's house.

It started all in a very innocent manner, in fact, he completely missed the jar on his first day. Most likely because he didn't even get into the kitchen, since he arrived in the evening and was promptly dragged, not that he terribly minded, into America's bedroom.

It was on the morning after as he, still half asleep, stirred sugar into his tea and tried to trick his jet-lagged brain into functioning on more than the current fourty percent. Bleary-eyed and unfocused, he looked at nothing particular until his eyes naturally dropped on the item standing in the middle of the dinner table.

A standard glass jar, his brain supplied, with a screw-on metal lid. Of the size marmalade would be usually sold in, the cheap sort, not the fancy preserves from locally sourced hand-picked strawberries.

This train of pointless thoughts was interrupted by the small heart-attack England received from the sound of a toaster, spitting out their breakfast. And in the general tumult that followed between America complaining about the lack of orange juice and England's protest that butter should _not_ , in principle, be visible in slices on a piece of bread, the jar was forgotten.

-

They had a little quarrel in the evening after they came back from the meeting. Just a harmless squabble, unavoidable when one's lover was also his colleague and close ally, but England still felt like he should hold the tradition and punish America with the obligatory thirty minutes of silence. That was how he found himself in the kitchen again, knees huddled to his chest and eyes fixed on the jar.

Why would America leave a jar on his table? If it was smudged with marmalade leftovers or some other food group that was usually sold in jars, he would understand; America, not exactly a neat-freak and probably wouldn't mind such an item in his kitchen. But this jar was clean, and if not new than certainly thoroughly washed and polished.

What was it for? Money? No, America was the type to keep small change in the pockets of his jeans, the coins prone to falling out of them whenever their owner disrobed and always with the vicious intention to roll around the room and try to hide in the most improbable places. He was definitely not the type to make a savings jar.

Did America plan to make his own jam? Oh God forbid, England mentally slapped himself for such an idea, as an image of America in an apron, handkerchief around his head, stirring cranberries in a large pot on a summer day entered his inner vision. No, definitely not.

Apron-clad America in his head was replaced by the real, hoodie-clad America entering the kitchen, eyes cast downwards, face meek and sheepish.

“Oh, England, there you are.” he mumbled, still not looking at him. England, who was at this point quite fed up with his own sulking, bit his tongue and swallowed the icy “Where else would I be, this is not your farm and I can't very well hide when I have the choice of four rooms, one kitchen and two tiny bathrooms of which only one possess a bathtub!” and settled with a neutral “Hmph.”

America started to shuffle through the kitchen in the awkward way people do when they try to fake searching for something when they are not, looking at weird places, seemingly distracted by the odd colour of the kitchenette's door handles. He finally came close to England, fidgeted for a few more seconds and then outstretched his arm and carefully touched England's hand, resting on his knee.

England looked at his impossible boyfriend who, already prepared, managed to blink at him with eyes even Bambi would be jealous of. And so he sighed, patted America on the shoulder and said:

“Oh, very well you. Go make some popcorn and I'll try to find a DVD that we both will be able to watch without one of us sleeping on the couch as a result.”

The jar was forgotten. For the evening, that is.

-

The next morning was Saturday and both had a day off, so they happily indulged in the pleasures of sleeping untill ten. Adding the overly romantic cuddling untill eleven and a prolonged shower including morning sex until twelve, it was past noon as they found themselves in the kitchen again. England, in one of his rarest moments of content happiness, was putting on the kettle while humming a fairly optimistic song. Unsure whether to add more water for coffee, he turned to America behind him - 

Who was looking at the Jar.

It was not the usual distracted look of a fool in love who would smile at a brick if it was put in front of him. America was staring at the jar in an extremely thoughtful and concentrated way - he was thinking about it, and he was thinking very hard.

England, endorphin somehow encouraging his usually not very high self-esteem, was just opening his mouth to ask what was so special about a glass jar that it was worth looking at instead of his bare back, as the doorbell rung.

America sprang up and hurried to the front door to receive what was unmistakably the take-out they ordered for their brunch.

England looked once more at the wicked object, shook his head and started to set up the table.

-

The afternoon was spent in a very productive way. America's front garden fence needed urgent repainting and he managed, in a true Tom Sawyer-ish way, to persuade England it would be great fun to do it together.

They ended up sweaty, tired, and with pieces of green paint in places it shouldn't ever be found. Both  felt ready for a reward and after the much needed refreshment of their appearances, they left the house in a search of a restaurant.

A small but cosy Vietnamese restaurant provided them with a plentiful dinner, and they grabbed a six-pack of beer on their way back, intending to spend the rest of the evening in front of the telly. However, they somehow ended up sitting in the kitchen in a very interesting and surprisingly deep discussion about children literature, a topic they both enjoyed and both of them knew about far more than the other imagined. The six-pack was long gone at the time England's bladder reminded him of his environment and he realized it was almost midnight.

A quick trip to the toilet later - England was quite proud of himself that he managed to drink but not get drunk for once - he returned to the kitchen, only to find America standing at the table.

The fateful jar in his hands.

Determined to solve the mystery once and for all, England started with a careful:

“Would you care to explain...?”

“England! I just realized how late it was,” America smiled a decidedly fake smile as he placed the jar on the table again, “how about we go to bed?”

England looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and confusion. Something here was definitely weird.

“And by bed I mean yes, I want you to fuck me so hard I will remember you for a whole week after you've left.”

Sadly, England's libido decided a jar enigma was a small sacrifice in the face of America's proposal.

-

The next morning found England once again bleary-eyed and unfocused in the kitchen, only instead of jet-lag it was a piercing headache that accompanied his thoughts. His suitcase was almost packed, and he tried to mentally prepare himself for the eight hour flight.

Sometimes, he felt too old for this.

There was a nagging feeling he forgot something, that perhaps some papers he should have signed were left under couch cushions or that one of his shirts ended accidentally in America's laundry basket.

And then he realized what was amiss: The jar! The kitchen table was covered as usual with, papers, rubber bands, crayons, puzzle pieces, general rubbish and two stray flowerpots, but the jar, the jar he found himself thinking about as he woke up in the middle of the night, America's too warm body clutching him teddy-bear style, the jar was missing.

Just as he stood up to see if it didn't get knocked down under the table (they weren't exactly considerate last night), he heard America's voice calling him from upstairs.

As he reached the bedroom, his boyfriend was standing next to his suitcase - in his hands, the jar.

Before England could react, America made the deep inhale-exhale thing that he only made before public speeches or when he was confessing to something really terrible - England's stomach squeezed itself unpleasantly since he knew which of the two was out of question - and finally said:

“England, I...I wanted to put this into your suitcase without you knowing, but then....you know, cherry trees and stuff, I'm not very good at lying.”

England, this time truly speechless, only nodded.

“I had this idea as we talked about your garden the last time I was visiting you, remember? You told me how much you loved the feeling of earth between your fingers, how you can sense the pulse of your land in it, and I just...”

America swallowed.

England swallowed too.

“I know it's probably stupid and you will say it's useless and your luggage will be too heavy or something, but I thought it would be nice to have a little bit of you, of English earth in my house, even if it would be only a handful. So I wanted to give you this,” America outstretched both hands, the jar clutched between his fingers, “and maybe you could fill it with the earth from your garden and bring it back to me.”

America's head was cast down, probably looking past the jar at his toes in blue slippers.

And England.... England didn't see much of it at that moment, because he was too busy saying his silent thanks; to God and gods and goddesses and magic and the universe and destiny and everything else he ever encountered in the thousands of years he lived through; thanking them for this fool in front of him, thanking for being given someone so lovely and dear, someone whom he had all reason to love with his whole heart, just as he did.

In the next moment, he was gently stroking America's hands still firmly gripping the jar. As their eyes met, he pronounced as solemnly and still gently as he could, “Of course I will bring it to you, America. Of course I will.”

Foreheads touching, they laughed; the jar carefully held between their entwined fingers.


End file.
